A love letter
A dear john
A letter of advice
You’re such a righteous asshole. Like that ex-boyfriend who has a better life on Instagram. Surfing at sunset, the golden hours giving his skin that perfect glow. When did he even learn how to surf? Oh right, the whole surf and ski in the same day. Fuck you, and your influencers, California. I can never get a campsite reservation when I want them. And all the dogs are adopted, the waitlist is 7 months deep. The lines at Boba Guys just never go away. Brunch is a full contact sport.
All your people who are wearing masks while talking with the cheese monger or picking up their wine allotments in Paso, or Napa, Mendo, or even, San Bernadino.
The taco shops. The estuaries and elephant seals. Sailboats and catamarans. Fancy donuts. Deserts. Fleetwood Mac. Kale and brussel sprouts. The first minority majority state. Vanguard of gay marriage. Clusters of misty coastal redwoods and still sequoias. Dungeness crabs. Drought. Ohlone and Chumash and 100 more that you, the state, fight tooth and nail to constrict and contain. Cattle ranchers. The underpaid and overworked farm workers. And yet your people travel great distances and pay to pick a peach, or an ollallaberry, whatever the hell that is. And try their hand at urban bee keeping on the roofs, perched above decrepit blocks full of human feces. Just look up, always look up, California.
The Inland Empire, self-proclaimed. Who the hell calls themselves an empire other than Californians.
The tallest peak in the lower 48 and the deepest crevice of death in the lower 48. Why do you need both superlatives?
You somehow even manage to look good in smoke.